And I sense relief when we cross it, just as I did when I was younger.
“Coward is scared of water,” Mum once told me. “Went fishing while drunk off his ass. Almost drowned. Shame he didn't.”
That murky flow splits the land like a boundary line.
On this side of the water, I can breathe again.
The road curves into red dust, a softer path now.
It hugs the riverbank, bending gently into open territory.
An imaginary Mark appears in my rearview mirror, sitting in the back of the ute.
I won’t leave him on the corner.
???
Water glints through gaps in the trees.
Tyre marks fade in and out.
The only proof that any other soul has bothered to come this far.
Being the middle of the week during a quiet month, we have the place to ourselves.
I’m looking for something.
A memory with roots.
Wooden arms that had once held me when nobody else would.
The truck slows.
There.
That bend along the riverbank.
A curve of trees thick enough to offer sanctuary.
Aligned in a way that let me gaze upon my beloved night sky.
And closer to the slope, slightly forward of the rest, stands a large gum tree.
Tall and stubborn like me.
Leaning just enough over the brink that its roots form an alliance with the tide.
“Used to come down here whenever I could,” I say.
“I was pretty lonely. But this was my safe haven.”
For a moment, neither of us move.
I cut the engine.
Opening my door, I follow the ghost to my tree.
Behind me, Amos rests against the side of the doorframe, a camera in one hand.
